


On the Edge

by SeverinadeStrango



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Akechi Mitsuhide is His Own Warning, Akiyama Nobutomo Belongs to @judasetcetera, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Begging, Crying During Sex, Edging, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverinadeStrango/pseuds/SeverinadeStrango
Summary: At least for now, they can pretend.





	On the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Akiyama Nobutomo is a historically based OC created by my friend @judasetcetera.

“Have you done what I told you to?”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence, then, “very well,” and the door slid shut behind Nobutomo. He’d convinced Shingen to move Mitsuhide out from a cell, especially given the frequency with which he was taken out for “questioning” by one or both of them, whether it was genuine or not. Ultimately, it was more convenient for all parties, and made it much more likely and _appealing_ for Mitsuhide to talk. Not that he ever would – Nobutomo knew that already. The man’s devotion for his lord ran so deep that he doubted even death itself could sever the pair of them from one another.

In the middle of the room, Mitsuhide sat quietly, his legs tucked underneath him as he plucked absentmindedly at the edges of his loose kimono. Yes, he’d done exactly what had been ordered of him – he’d sat like this, exactly like this, ever since yesterday. His hands had not strayed. His mind had – but they had planned for this. The challenge had been in keeping what was in his mind _in_ his mind, and not letting it translate elsewhere.

That, Nobutomo had said, was for when _he_ came.

And now that he was here, Mitsuhide was so relieved that he could have sworn he was about to faint right then and there. It had been twenty-four very long and lonely hours, and every slight twitch or movement that he made felt like torture in itself, and right now he was about ready to beg. 

Which he would, of course, but not so easily – he had to be driven to that point, he had to be worn down and broken and dismantled and he wanted Nobutomo to be the one to do so. To be broken by such capable hands – oh, he could not imagine a more glorious and climactic end, save for perhaps to be slain by his own Lord and to bleed out once and for all against him. 

“Show me.”

Obediently (and how proud Nobutomo was to see it indeed), Mitsuhide stood and slipped loose the ties on his hakama, the fabric falling to the floor without so much as a rustle. He stood before Nobutomo now in his light kimono, the fabric ending to give way to long, pale legs that seemed like they went on forever. Nobutomo could get lost within this man, just standing before him, and that was perhaps what had made him so formidable of an enemy. There were so many sides of him to show, to see. 

He quite liked this one in particular.

Reaching out with both hands, Nobutomo cupped Mitsuhide’s face in his calloused palms and simply stared, for what felt like forever even to him. He could see the swelling hope, the puppy-like eagerness in his eyes – maybe his torment would end here.

No. He would make him wait just a little while longer. After all, he’s already waited this long, he’d already come this far. What was this, in comparison?

“Look at you,” he murmured, plucking at the corner of Mitsuhide’s darkened lips with his thumb, “waiting for me.” It was just like he’d told him to – Nobutomo took his time, running his fingers through that long, silken hair, feeling each bone at the back of his neck, smoothing palms over the length of his graceful throat and his collarbones, his shoulders, beautifully sculpted as ever. When he finally reached the tie of his kimono, Mitsuhide tensed and almost _nearly_ lost the control he’d worked so hard to keep, but he’d bitten his lip instead. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut as he fought, he fought for all he was worth – this was how _badly,_ Nobutomo thought, he wanted him. 

It certainly served as a good motivator. 

Nobutomo pushed the kimono off of Mitsuhide’s bony shoulders and let it flutter to the ground, waiting to see if Mitsuhide would move, but ever the obedient pet, he did not so much as twitch, even when Nobutomo ran a hand down the line of his stomach and skipped _wickedly_ over his arousal before landing again on the smooth skin of his thighs. Blood was starting to well in the indents left behind by his teeth in his own bottom lip, and Nobutomo bent in, kissing him and swiping his tongue across the little cuts, cleaning him and owning him here, too. 

“All right there?”

“Mmnh.”

“I see,” Nobutomo chuckled, softly stroking Mitsuhide’s lovely flanks before sliding one hand around to rest at the very small of his back, pulling him ever closer and waiting until he’d shuffled so that the rest of his body was moving as well. He wanted this, he was _aching_ with need, and Nobutomo could see that quite clearly – the head of his cock was painfully red and weeping, a beautiful contrast with the rest of him, pale and glowing, but he’d waited this long. One sunrise and sunset. No touching, no moving, he was not allowed to do _anything_ to relieve the built-up pressure save for waiting for Nobutomo himself. An interrogation tactic, Nobutomo had called it, one that was quite advanced – but they both knew better, and they both wanted what it really was. Judging by the state he was in now, ready to fall apart at the slightest touch, he had followed those instructions very well indeed. Nobutomo couldn’t help but feel his chest swell with pride – he had successfully given orders to a general of _Oda Nobunaga,_ even if it was only temporary, even though he knew Mitsuhide wouldn’t have cooperated in the slightest if he hadn’t been going after the very same thing himself. 

Once again, Akechi Mitsuhide had proved himself to be a dangerously adaptable and slippery opponent. 

When he ran his hands back up and then down again, however, that seemed to be his undoing, because he suddenly tensed and then shivered, breathing deeply as if trying to gather his composure that had long since vanished into thin air. He wasn’t allowed. Not allowed to fall apart just yet, he needed Nobutomo’s permission and there was absolutely no way that Nobutomo would let him yet.

This was a test. A different type of war that was no less ferocious. 

“Can’t,” Mitsuhide whispered, and Nobutomo could see his face flushing even in the dim light that filtered in through the screens, he was _shaking_ with the effort that it took not to fall to the ground and scream right there and then. “Won’t you _play_ with me,” he gasped, the words seeming to cost him as well, “Play with me, _please?”_

Nobutomo, as wicked as he had felt the previous night, couldn’t say no to him now.

“Here,” he beckoned, sitting with his legs neatly folded on the floor, and Mitsuhide crumpled like a western marionette and crawled towards him, knees red from how long he’d been kneeling before. He climbed into Nobutomo’s lap, rubbing his head over his shoulders and chin like a cat before Nobutomo maneuvered him so that he was lying back up against his sturdy chest. Mitsuhide sighed, partially in frustration and partially in content as well – Nobutomo could hear both, clear as day in his voice. He looked over the length of him, those flushed cheeks and his heavy eyes, the way his throat would ripple when he’d swallow roughly every once in a while.

In a sly move that surprised even him, Nobutomo curled the thumb and first finger of his left hand around the base of Mitsuhide’s straining cock, reminding him once again that he would not, he _could_ not come without his permission. He would when Nobutomo decided to let him – and not a second earlier. Mitsuhide nearly _screamed._ Had he not waited long enough, had he not yet proved himself as capable and worthy and deserving of release? Nobutomo’s arm was curled around his front, he couldn’t fall forwards, and he was pressed up against him backwards – there was nothing but him in either or in any direction. No escape, nothing, nothing. 

Fighting down his own internal rising feeling of smugness, Nobutomo snaked his other hand downwards, along the slope of Mitsuhide’s spine, and then once he’d finally reached his objective he slowly began to push two fingers inside of him. Mitsuhide, predictably, howled, trying to find some sort of equilibrium between the fingers around his cock and the ones up inside of him, all while Nobutomo chuckled infuriatingly and laid gentle little kisses on his neck. No. No no no, he wanted it to _hurt,_ but that was too much to ask. It would hurt when Nobutomo allowed it to hurt and not a second earlier, he would have fought and begged and squirmed any other time but he was weary, weary and tired and desperate after these long hours.

“Oh – “

“Hush.”

“Oh god, oh _please_ – play with me, Nobutomo, _play with-!”_

Nobutomo slid another finger in, momentarily quieting Mitsuhide’s incessant pleading as he rocked his hips back onto those fingers, so close to orgasm but forever away, as he would be until Nobutomo felt particularly merciful. With every brush of his fingerpads over that spot inside of him the pleasure, now painful in itself, crested – and then he stopped moving just at the very last moment, even though ultimately _nothing_ would have happened as his other hand still had not moved. Pulling back a little, Nobutomo looked down at his face to see that Mitsuhide was brokenly sobbing, tears coursing down his cheeks and up into his hairline with how his head was tilted back. 

“Can’t, can’t, _can’t!”_

“You can, Mitsuhide,” he whispered, brushing his lips over the shell of his ear with more care than he’d _ever_ thought himself capable of, “now give over and let go.” Nobutomo released his fingers, and twitched the ones inside of Mitsuhide, and then turned his head and sealed their lips in a firm kiss as Mitsuhide convulsed in his arms. He could feel the little stings, the nails digging into his flesh, he could feel Mitsuhide’s tears wet against his own face as they fell, and the breathless gasps against his own lips as every last bit of resolve and control melted away. 

They both knew, clear as day. Mitsuhide would always belong to Oda Nobunaga in body and in soul, but for now? For now, he was here with Nobutomo – and he was his. A small victory in a futile war.


End file.
